With a Collar, Without a Leash
by knobbly knees
Summary: A young Roy Mustang is pitched into the slowly collapsing Wizarding World, under direct orders from Fuhrer Bradley. Leaving a newly peaceful Amestris behind, the bleak prospect of losing himself again could very well become a dark reality. OotP/FMA.
1. Chapter 1

War, Roy mused, was a constant thing.

By no means was he purposefully being melodramatic. After finally obtaining peace in Amestris, by means of literally annihilating their opponents, a young Flame Alchemist had once again been thrown into the fray.

Pitched, in his opinion, would have been more an adequate verb.

The Ishvalans had been massacred, and the State deemed the victor. Not that any of the soldiers believed that. How could they have been successful if all they had done was murder innocents? But their Fuehrer claimed they were the winners, so they were the winners, no matter now guilty his subordinates felt.

It was ironic, how he had longed so much for peace, and once getting it, had been sent out to fight in a divide of silence that he didn't belong in. A war that was blatantly being ignored.

Stepping with a grace and co ordination that came with years of strict discipline and high standards off the train, his obsidian eyes roamed the station, searching for the person he would 'just know'.

Perhaps the weathered old man with a beard tucked into his psychedelic yellow belt was the sign?

Striding with precise steps filled with purpose, the soldier met the tall man in a corner of the bustling station. Ever since the war had ended, a mere three weeks previous, people had been venturing out into the open, frantically travelling from town to town in order to build up broken families. Each and every person in the station, including any military personnel, had an air of rigidness surrounding their bodies and mentality. Everyone except the man standing before Mustang.

"Ah, my boy, a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and it is my belief that you are Major Roy Mustang."

At the mention of his client's name, and subsequently of his, Roy stepped into a formal salute, his hand rising to his forehead. Many civilians flinched at his stance, believing that a mindless act of insane violence would spur from the mentally exhausted handsome man. It was not uncommon for soldiers to lose their sanity as repercussions from warfare. Especially after such a brutal and barbaric war as the still sore civil one.

"Sir", Mustang replied in a clipped and experience hardened tone. His whole demeanour was a stark contrast to the carefree and slightly ethereal man's before him. The seemingly ancient man waved one thin arm, his drooping sleeve waving around his lanky form.

"We should get going. It wouldn't do to be late for Molly, now would it?" having no idea who 'Molly' was, Roy slackened his formal position, and followed his client through the sun splashed building and into the surrounding desert. Only being in the East City for a few weeks had made him rather appreciative of the greenery scattered throughout the city. He particularly liked the cement he walked on daily.

Blood didn't embed itself into every crevice, like it did to every particle of sand.

Watching his footsteps disappear into the clean sand that was constantly moving with the slight breeze, made it seem so different to the thick imprints in the blood ridden Ishvalan sand. The dark red and crusty brown was a sight he had become accustomed to seeing in the terrorized region, and was absent, for which he was grateful. The indentations appeared innocent, and unstained.

"Ah, here we are, Major."

'Here' was at a scrap pile of material crudely sewn together in the distorted shape of a tie. Raising a dark eyebrow at the humming man beside him, Roy sighed. When you worked with Maes Hughes, you were exposed to stranger things. Dumbledore had hooked a finger under the multicoloured accessory, so, as it seemed the most rational thing to do, he did the same.

Big mistake.

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.

.

With a tug behind his navel and a low pitched gasp, Roy found himself tumbling through a multitude of shapes and blotchy colours at an alarming speed. Stumbling out through the haze and onto solid ground was a welcome reprieve to the nauseating swirling of the tunnel. A soft cough to his left informed him that he was indeed still with his escort and client.

Preferring to assess his current predicament and area instead of immediately turning to Dumbledore, he looked around.

"What in the world...?"

Automobiles were scattered throughout the surrounding green, parked in straight lines against the curbs of footpaths. They were sleek and aerodynamic, and completely different to the clunky and awkward cars in Amestris. Tall, alien and silver poles were dotted at corners, their tips shining orange beams onto the footpaths below. Houses parallel to the street had blue and purple flashes lighting up their windows, reminiscent of alchemic arrays in use, with shadows dancing across the visible spaces sporadically.

"Oh, not in your world at all, Major."

Roy's head whipped back. Dumbledore was stroking his beard in an amused manner, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that made him look smug and like a naughty child. It wasn't a very reassuring look, and, combined with his comment, only made the military man before him more alert.

"You were briefed, I'm sure."

"The bare minimum, Sir."

Another spark lit the eccentric man's eyes behind half moon spectacles, taking years off his visage.

" As expected of Bradley. Now, my dear, listen up. Your world co-exists with mine, the only differences being geographical details, you are in London, England, as we speak, time, it is 1995, a skip of eighty seven years, and the fact that alchemy is not as widely, or as skilfully practised as in your country. Here, however, magic is abundant, but hidden from mere magicless folk, Muggles."

The age old wizard gazed into the twenty three year olds face, trying to find any evidence of deceit. He knew better than to peer forcefully into the mind of an agitated soldier's, as the mindset is in a delicate state after the traumatic tribulations of war. It would do neither of them any good. So, instead he asked the next best thing, just as Mustang was about to question him, rather ruthlessly he was sure.

"Lemon drop?"

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* * *

Okey-dokey.

I've always wanted to write (possible) angst and war hardened-ness, but never got around to it... Rekindled addiction to FMA gave me that opportunity. I haven't watched Brotherhood, so most of my knowledge is the first season and the internet, so feel free to point out details! I have Roy as twenty three in 1908, I think... :D And later on... I may just be searching for a beta but it depends on how this goes...

Review or die. I kid I kid! But, I would probably be more motivated to go on if y'all reviewed, since I'm on the fence about this... :D

Review? :D

Knobbly Out.


	2. Chapter 2

The old man had quite the stride.

Rushing to catch up to his client, Roy gave a slight stumble over the drain pipes. Everything was plainly alien. Where were the armed officials roaming the streets? Or the low hum that indicated hundreds of people wrapped up in their thinly walled homes? Or even young children running around filthy streets, even the prostitutes ? There were no vacant market stalls or old men playing cards and laughing over dirty jokes at street corners.

There was nothing. Compacted cars, and housing but no other living person besides his client and himself, on the street. Was the world in such a way that people didn't venture out to interact with others? It couldn't have been past seven in the evening.

In all curiosity and concern, what had the world, that technically wasn't one he belonged in, come to?

Even during the war, whilst the streets would usually be deserted for fear of open attack or raid, one could still hear the shushed whispers, and general sounds of life, even if that life was one spent in dread. Here, in 'London', there didn't seem to be any blatant signs of a war on the horizon. If anything, there was the sense of blissful ignorance and obliviousness.

You could only really appreciate ignorance once it had been shattered. Roy wondered how long this illusion of peace would last.

"Ah. Here we are. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

The Fuhrer had been fooled. That had to be it.

"There is no home of that number, Sir. Number twelve does not exi-"

No sooner had he begun to spin around on his heel to leave (he hadn't planned as far as to how exactly he would get back to East City) whilst simultaneously preparing to recommend a psychiatric hospital in Central to the man had a ratty door appeared. Squeezing itself out between number ten and number thirteen, a house with clouded windows and shabby paint materialised.

"I believe you stand corrected, Major. Alas, I must take my leave now, lest you wish to be the owner of malfunctioning eardrums. Dear Harry has quite the set of lungs when annoyed." He pulled a long, thin piece of wood from his robe sleeve, and tapped the door with a flourish, "I shall be in contact."

The sound of clinking bolts and loosening locks came just before the door creaked ominously open, exposing a hallway as equally dark as the outward appearance of the house. A dimmed light illuminated the end of the corridor, and muffled yells could be heard coming from the upper floors.

A bony hand clamped down onto Mustang's shoulder. With a single and sharp shove, he fumbled his way into the depressing abode.

"Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Major."

And with that, Dumbledore was gone.

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.

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The male, adolescent shouting from upstairs had subsided for the time being, leaving Roy's own breathing to fill the void. Lights flickered along the wall, not giving much light at all. At the end of the hall, the dim brightness shining under the door jamb faltered, and the door itself was flung open. It unsettled a storm of dust from the wall. Roy expected to have a rather large or intimidating person bark at him, not for a slightly portly woman to shriek at him in a foreign tongue.

The woman, with fiery red hair, bustled past him and slammed the ancient door shut with excessive force, and nudged him down the thinly carpeted hall into a chaotic kitchen of sorts. Eyes adjusting to the newly bright room, Roy realised, with a shock, that Dumbledore had spoken Amestrian throughout their brief conversation. The woman was speaking rapidly in a dialect he didn't have a hope of comprehending, more so to his shoulder than to his face, what with her height being dramatically different from his own.

Numerous sets of eyes peered at him. A sneer decorated the face of a tall, sallow skinned man who's greasy hair could have fried a breakfast. Mustang's own dark eyes locked with his only for a mere moment, as the man with the swivelling electric blue eye was much more intriguing. His face was heavily scarred, with a chunk of his nose actually missing. His limbs were not bountiful, one arm and one leg being made superficially of wood, and some strange form of auto mail. The eye, however, twisted and turned within its socket, going back into the man's head. When it wasn't furiously rolling, it focused on the major's gloved hands. The eye was smart.

A very tall, dark skinned man brushed past him politely, bowing his head in greeting. The battle hardened man also clambered through the doorway that Roy had stepped out of. The greasy haired fellow however, turned his malicious smirk on the woman, and muttered something that made her blush, and whip out her own stick.

Roy's fingers poised for attack. The people seemed to rely heavily on those sticks. Two men in the back were waving their own wooden twigs over a set of scrolls which were neatening themselves, and writing without any pens or the like.

The woman however, simply flicked her natural wooden piece in the general direction of him.

"He's not from here obvious-"

"That watch looks like t'would fetch qui-"

"Padfoot, he looks in shoc-"

"He's quite, you know, wotcher, you know,_ nice_-"

"A shot of whiskey and he'll be dand-"

Suddenly, Mustang understood the unusual language that dominated the room. From the flick of a stick, he could actually understand every conversation going on, particularly since they all pertained to him.

"-rry 'bout that. I'm Molly Weasley."

The plump woman had struck up their now two-sided conversation. She pointed out every person around the table, introducing two men from her family, her husband and son, both with their own flaming red hair, the owner of the house called Sirus, a rather sickly looking man reffered to as Lupin, Tonks, a woman who's hair changed colour more often than Havoc changed girlfriends, and Mundungus, a literal pile of rags and scum.

"Roy Mustang."

Sirus clapped him on the back, and pulled him down into the seat across from Lupin. The Londoner's wild hair and feral grin wasn't exactly comforting, but he seemed like an all out decent man. His friend, Lupin, poured him a glass of a familiar, and yet oh so strange, golden liquid with a twirl of his stick.

"You're gonna need it."

The amused look shared among the men of the group didn't assure him remotely in the tense and wary atmosphere of the room. The only reason he wasn't interrogated by the Order members, was because a barrel of teenagers, who had too many questions, soon crowded into the hazy kitchen, each with their own ruthless and pointless, in Roy's opinion, questionnaire.

Sirius was right. He did need the whiskey.

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* * *

Oh crap... How long has it been? Three weeks? That's not too bad I guess. I have a legitimate reason, though. Just my luck to get the flu just when Midterm rolls around... I'm living in a world of tissue clouds and thermometer trees. Oh, how I complain!

Thanks SO much to the guys who pointed out to me how wrong I was in my first chap... Shame of me :( All seems fixed now, and don't hesitate to correct me in this chapter too... I understand that my time of day isn't accurate, and my detail of Grimmauld Place isn't, you know, amazing, but bleeh. I'm sick, and wanted to post this to get it over with :) I liked it though, even if it IS a filler chapter of sorts...

Yeah, you guessed right. I DO own FMA and HP... Not. WOE IS ME! :(

Thanks to all who reviewed last time, and you know, they are like the salt to my pepper... The jaffa to my cake...the mince to my pie...

Sigh... I need a life.

Please Review! :)


	3. Chapter 3

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* * *

Erm, yeah, what that says.

Okay lads, here's the deal. This story is under intensive reconstruction, with the wonderful help from **aya-eyon**, my amazing beta. She'll be helping me revive this story from the virtual gutter, in the hopes of ending up with a decent fic. It's terrible at the moment, and I CAN actually write better. I published this on a whim, really. :O  
As a result, this story will not be updated for a while. Hopefully, when the summer rolls round properly (torrential rain is NOT acceptable in MAY), and I've completed my in-house exams, we'll get round to really starting the chapters. I don't know whether or not this will be fast updating once it gets going (I'm thinking not), since I'm working over the summer to save up for a Bass.  
And I'm rambling. My apologies.  
Lastly, I would like to thank all my readers, subscribers, favourites, and reviewers! I love you all, guys :D  
Any further questions can be asked via review or PM :D

Thanking you,

Knobbly-Knees.

:P :) :D


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